Days of Our Lives
by hillbythetree
Summary: The hopes, dreams, and wishes of the Mormon missionaries and the people they befriend.
1. Vanilla Twilight

_But drenched in vanilla twilight_  
_I'll sit on the front porch all night_  
_Waist-deep in thought because_  
_When I think of you I don't feel so alone_

* * *

The moon was much brighter than usual that night.

As Jacob Michaels drew back the corner of the little curtain, a sliver of light fell out and cracked on the floor. It glowed so pure against the dirty, dusky floorboards that he found himself pausing and staring at it, transfixed.

Lifting the curtain further, the moonlight crept over Jacob's face by degrees until it kissed his visage from cheek to cheek. With the addition of its glow, the shadows behind him were cast into even deeper contention. In fact, for a second, Jacob imagined that he had been plunged underwater, the corner where he stood washed to the brim with liquid light.

The moon itself sat serenely in the wide savanna sky, a pearl on a dark velvet cushion. It seemed at the same time both very close and very far away, but tonight it looked twice as large as before. Its face shone from behind the occasional cloud- aloof, magnetizing, and distantly cold.

Jacob thought it was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen

He looked out at the lunar regions, shadows against a silver plate. Their names sprang to mind easily as he sat on the corner of his bed, dipping one foot in and out of the moonlight pool. Mare Serentatis. Oceanius Procellarum. Plato, not the philosopher but the crater, a freckle on the moon's pale forehead.

As Jacob recounted their names, he remembered feeling his dad's hand on his shoulder, hearing the oaks whispering in the night breeze. Below his toes, the wooden floorboards were replaced by dry summer grass, and the night swelled with a symphony of crickets singing requiems to the sun.

"And that one's Mare Imbrium," his father had said, pointing a thick finger into the sky. "Long, long ago, a big celestial object crashed into the moon right there, and it left that giant scar."

"Wow," Jacob had breathed, trying to comprehend the massiveness of it all. "Why are the mare so dark, Dad?"

Crouching down, Jacob's father illustrated it with his hands. "Well, millions of years ago, there were gigantic meteoroids floating in space. Once in a while, one hit the moon, and boom-" his fingers were hunks of rock and debris hurtling away from the impact "-a giant crater formed!"

Jacob's eyes had reflected the light of the distant moon like mirrors, so awestruck was he.

"And when the craters hit," his father continued, "lava bubbled up from the ground-"

"But I thought the moon was cold!"

"Well, it is. But millions of years ago, it wasn't. Millions of years ago, the moon might have been a lot like us."

"But now there's no lava, huh."

His father patted his shoulder. "Right. It's hard and cold now. Whatever heat that was under that surface is gone."

Back then, the moon had seemed so familiar. Now, it just felt like someone Jacob used to know. He looked up at the sky again and felt a lonely weight settle in his chest. It seemed to remind him how far away from home he really was.

At the same time, the moonlight seemed to taunt him, reminding him of where he had come from and the things he had believed. Gentle lies, all of them- and within those falsities, a childlike innocence that he could never regain. _ Why did I come here?_ he wondered. _Am I even making a difference? And who am I to doubt what God wants me to do?_

Rising, Jacob pulled the curtain back in to place, its frayed hem rustling in the silent air. His bed shifted and creaked as he settled into place.

Wishing, wishing, he prayed to God that he wouldn't become cold under the surface, like the moon had.


	2. Zoloft Moments (née The Virgin Mary)

He could see her now in a soft and reticent light. In his most inculpable moments, Richard Church remembered his mother. She was thirty again, and he was six. She fixed his tie when they went to Temple. Her face never mattered as much as her hands, which were pudgy and soft and smoothed his hair.

His father's face would steam or slit, but hers was fixed in permanent benediction. She didn't cry in front of Richard, though he could hear her sometimes. Richard never touched her bruises. He never kissed her in front of Daddy. But he loved her.

He coveted and covered her as best as he could. He held her hand. He cried at her funeral, when her church friends eulogized her.

He couldn't say his part, he was crying so hard.

In the dark, depressing, Zoloft moments, he saw her. He reached out for her. He heard her screaming.

He loved her in a way, perhaps, that would have been better to not experience.


End file.
